Only If For A Night
by counterpunch
Summary: set to and follows Florence the Machine's "Only If For A Night." Rachel's life didn't exactly turn out the way she expected. Neither did Quinn's.


He didn't mean to.

That's what Rachel kept telling herself.

But this time, when she tripped down the stairs backing up, frightened at how he'd lashed out, she blacked out.

She awoke on the recliner, wrapped in a blanket with a steaming cup of tea on the table next to her and Finn's sorrowful eyes staring at her worriedly, a million apologies ready on his tongue.

He never_ meant_ to.

But it still kept happening. After eight years, she was used to flinching at loud noises - how the door slammed when he'd come home after a disappointing day at work or how he'd throw something in a fit of rage.

He never touched her. He never had to, she never let him get that far.

But she was still terrified. It was walking on eggshells, and she'd be the one left cracked.

Lying in bed that night, with her head throbbing and lip split, Rachel thought of how tomorrow, she'd have to tell her co-workers in the office that she tripped down the stairs. And how that felt like an excuse she she might have to start using more often.

She felt sick.

She snuck out of bed to the bathroom, braced her arms shakily on the counter, and tenderly touched her lip. She didn't like the reflection that met her. Two melatonin pills later, she fell into a dreamless sleep.

She woke groggily with strings of lights glowing softly on the ceiling. She shook her head, confused. They had a ceiling fan above their bed and the Christmas lights were packed in the garage.

Rachel was lying on a crowded gymnasium floor with McKinley sports banners on the walls. She looked down and discovered she was wearing a beautiful cream gown.

Finding herself at Prom senior year was nothing compared to the shock that hit her like a truck as she drew her gaze up to face a ghost.

Nothing else mattered in that moment. Because here, in a sparkling purple dress, was Quinn Fabray. _Standing_.

It'd been eight years- _eight years _- since since Quinn died when a blood clot got stuck in her brain after a surgery to help increase blood flow to her legs. Rachel wed Finn that day but married the guilt on the gold band she carried on her finger.

It weighed her down every day. And she preferred it that way.

She didn't realize she was crying until everything blurred and she blinked in a panic to prevent Quinn from disappearing. When tears fell and the world cleared, Rachel fell forward on her knees, threw her arms around Quinn's legs and reveled at their solidity.

It might be a dream, but it was one she could _feel_ and she'd cling to it as long as she could.

Rachel felt Quinn touch her shoulder and press a kiss to her head.

"Concentrate," she said.

"Concentrate?" she asked confused, but with no less awe, marveling at how the light danced around Quinn's hair like a halo. She was so _beautiful._

Quinn nodded and smiled knowingly, as if all the world were within her grasp. "Concentrate."

Rachel looked around, finding her old glee clubbers in the crowd, looking out at the two of them under a spotlight in the middle of the dance floor.

Still stunned, Rachel allowed Quinn to help her stand. An arm snaked around her back coming to rest against her waist and pulled their hips close. A light finger traced her trembling lip, lingering over her cut. Quinn's eyes clouded with compassion and she drew her other arm across Rachel's shoulders, holding her tightly.

Rachel doesn't remember the last time she felt so _safe_.

The band started to play a slow song and as the lights twinkled, they danced. Rachel laid her head in the crook of Quinn's neck, her skin burning underneath Quinn's touch.

"Concentrate, concentrate," Quinn kept whispering.

It was hard to when she felt so dizzy. The only thing she could concentrate on was the solid body against her. She sighs contentedly, keen to never let go when her eyes land on a figure in the back, one that she's more familiar with than her own, and she stiffens in Quinn's arms. Finn is sipping punch and talking to Puck, but suddenly she's filled with images of their bedroom, lying in bed watching the fan blades spin for hours at night.

The panic starts to seize her and she's only vaguely aware of hands cupping her face gently until Quinn's lips are on her own and everything explodes.

She _remembers._

Third grade, when she won the Lima Talent Contest, how heavy the medal felt.

The first time she snuck onto the stage at McKinley and sang until her ears rung and her lungs burned.

Her first solo with New Directions.

Winning, winning, winning.

She remembers the exultation, the drive, the _purpose. _She awakens under Quinn's touch, through Quinn's kiss, and she's alit- on _fire- _a phoenix.

Rachel wakes, baptized anew, tears streaming down her face, chest heaving in the darkness of the bedroom.

"Concentrate," she hears on the whisper of a breeze.

This time, she _listens_.

She doesn't look at the other body in the bed or the fan blades on her way out.

It's two years later and Rachel's trying not to stare at the twelve-year old standing next to her mother, but their eyes are the same swirl of hazel. The memorial service takes place at the church and everyone is gathering around a table of light refreshments. She breaks away from the crowd, pleased at the turnout and reunion, and heads back to the gravesite.

A few chairs still remain but Rachel kneels on the grass, places a stone on the headstone and says the kaddish. She traces Quinn's name reverently and takes out a Playbill with her name printed inside. She leans it against the grave and puts her wedding ring on top. She doesn't need to carry it anymore.

The sun shines through the canopy of trees, a breeze tousles her hair, and Rachel's arms are stretched out like Maria.

Her voice cracks but it's a benediction, "I concentrated."


End file.
